Tilting Off the Edge of the World
by HarmonyLover
Summary: An experiment in world-crossing, in which one of rthstewart's Peters - of the RAF and the French vineyards - finds himself confronted with an England and siblings that are his own, yet not his own – Almyra's Edmund and Susan.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own any part of _The Chronicles of Narnia_; it all belongs to the C.S. Lewis estate, Walt Disney Pictures, Walden Media, 20th Century Fox, et al. I write these stories purely for enjoyment; no copyright infringement is intended. This particular Peter Pevensie of the RAF, along with the Susan also known as Louise, belongs to the amazing rthstewart, while Edmund Pevensie the trumpeter, his wife Maureen, Susan Pevensie the Seer, Peter Pevensie the medieval archivist, his wife Meg, and the Romper Room are all the creations of the wonderful Almyra. Both Almyra and rthstewart own their particular versions of the Pevensies, of course; I am just an awed reader playing in their sandboxes. The instep stomping may actually belong to Elecktrum, and of course I want to give her all due credit for that.

**Author's Note: **An experiment in world-crossing, in which one of rthstewart's Peters (of the RAF and the French vineyards) finds himself confronted with an England and siblings that are his own, yet not his own – Almyra's Edmund and Susan. Also of note: There are many, many places in the vicinity of the Palace Theater, Shaftesbury Avenue, and Charing Cross Road where an alley could be hidden behind the bars and theaters. Placing the Romper Room club there was purely a matter of convenience on my part. The allusion Edmund makes to having "lived through" one of Peter's nightmares is part of my own alternate Almyra-verse story, "Meg Pevensie: 1952." Written as a gift for rthstewart, Christmas 2011, and I must also thank her for being a lovely and enthusiastic beta.

This started out as crack!fic, and while it retains some of that, it quickly became a much more serious piece…

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><p><strong>Tilting Off the Edge of the World<strong>

"_Aslan belongs to many worlds, High King, and I as well. If you are able to give your love to only one place, you are not the man I thought."_

_ ~Bacchus, "The Maenad of the Maquis," rthstewart_

Peter woke slowly, groaning. His head was pounding, and instead of opening his eyes, which might bring more pain than it was worth, he reached out with his other senses, trying to understand where he was. He was lying on a decidedly hard surface, and it was cold. It was not wood underneath him, even though the last thing he remembered was being enclosed in a wine barrel on the way to Canfranc. Even more oddly, he was stretched full length, rather than in the cramped and uncomfortable position required by wine barrel camouflage. His hands and feet were not bound, and he did not hear any footsteps or any conversation in the immediate vicinity, though he could hear music (_a horn…?_) coming from somewhere and the sound of motor cars in the distance.

He rolled carefully onto his side, putting his hands down as he did so, and he felt the smooth yet undulating pattern of bricks under his fingers. He frowned to himself; if he had ended up in Canfranc without remembering how, that couldn't be a good sign. Rural France had nothing but dirt roads, and only larger towns and cities had brick roads and asphalt motorways, though many of them had been reduced to rubble by the Germans. If he had been captured, however, he wouldn't be left alone, and so far he had heard nothing that indicated another human presence.

Bracing himself, he opened his eyes, expecting the glare of interrogation lights or the absolute blackness of a cell or a cupboard. What he saw was neither; he was lying in what appeared to be an alley, with one or two small lights providing illumination over doorways.

Lights.

Peter sat bolt upright, a rush of adrenaline and alarm sweeping away his physical aches and mental fogginess. There weren't supposed to be lights. They were in the middle of a war, where bombings took place nightly and the utmost care was taken to keep any sort of target shrouded in the dark. Wherever he was, something was terribly, terribly wrong.

Climbing cautiously to his feet and finding that he didn't seem to be injured, he crept several hundred feet to the end of the alley – and the sight that met his eyes rendered him frozen with shock.

He was staring at the Palace Theatre and Shaftesbury Avenue, albeit from an odd angle and in almost unrecognizable surroundings. The motor cars he had heard were crowding the avenue itself, and the innumerable electric signs and the full glory of London nightlife were on display for all to see.

It left Peter utterly bewildered.

While he was evidently in London, it was not the London he knew from boyhood, nor the London that had been nearly destroyed by the Blitz. Shaftesbury Avenue he recognized; the Palace Theatre remained as it had for the past sixty years in his time, yet the full, open blaze of commercial nightlife, the smooth roads that looked as though they had never been broken up with shell holes and bomb debris, the careless cheerfulness of the handful of pedestrians he saw, confounded him.

Peter's skin flared, prickling with apprehension and awe and – it hit him with the force of a freight train – magic, the same pulling, insistent magic he had felt when they had all first stepped into Narnia together, the same heightened awareness and feeling of being called that he had felt on the train platform when they had returned to help Caspian. A warm breeze suddenly caressed him, and as Peter caught the heady scent of a Narnian spring, his pulse began to slow. He was safe. The Lion had a purpose for him here, though he knew not what it was. There had been no evidence of foul play, no injuries on him, nothing to suggest that his escape from France had gone awry. He was still wearing the clothes Marie had given him, a lightweight summer shirt and trousers, far too thin for what appeared to be autumn in London. His own insistent senses were telling him that whatever the reason, he was here as the High King, not simply Peter Pevensie.

He turned and retraced his steps to the spot where he had woken, looking for anything that might provide a clue or a direction. Seeing nothing immediately evident, not so much as a newspaper, he sat on the steps nearest to his original spot and tried to think.

Time was fluid when Narnia and Aslan were involved; they knew that. Though they had never been called to anywhere but Narnia before, Peter had no doubt that he could be taken to any time or place if Aslan willed it. Therefore, he could shove aside the question of how he had ended up in London to begin with. More importantly, _when_ was he? And why was he here?

The horn Peter had heard earlier – trumpet, he realized now – began again, much closer to him. It was coming from the building behind him, and Peter twisted around to see if there was any identifying sign on the access door.

_The Romper Room._

Despite the bizarre images the name conjured up in his mind, the melody emanating from that trumpet drew Peter in. He sat listening, enraptured, trying to understand why such simple music was so enticing. It was longing and sweet, wild and joyous, something that he might have heard in Narnia on a warm summer's day or during a midnight frolic with the Dryads.

_Something he might have heard in Narnia . . ._

In one swift motion, Peter was on his feet and silently twisting the doorknob, hoping against hope that it was unlocked. The door gave almost soundlessly under his touch, and he stealthily made his way forward, moving along a back hallway and past an entrance marked "Stage" (where the trumpet music grew much louder) through to a club full of spotless, empty tables and a gleaming bar on the other side of the room. The bartender was wiping down counters and putting away clean glasses; he didn't notice Peter in the after-hours darkness.

The trumpeter was completely absorbed in the tune he was playing, standing straight, his feet planted firmly apart, eyes closed. His fingers were moving surely and gracefully over the valves, his dark hair gleaming in the dim lights. Peter knew him instantly. He was older than when Peter had last seen him, older by at least a decade, yet it was still unmistakably Edmund, except . . . Edmund didn't play.

Peter leaned forward and gripped the nearest chair back, his knuckles turning white.

As the music died away, Edmund lingering on one last, plaintive, hopeful note, the barman whistled appreciatively. "That's some playing."

"Thanks, Tom," Edmund said, flashing him a grin. "Wrote it myself."

Not strictly true, Peter thought, but Edmund could hardly have told Tom where that song had come from. Tom said something else friendly and jovial before saying goodnight and heading out the back, and Peter struggled to speak, to say something regarding the music or the playing or Edmund himself. He had been led to Edmund, so clearly he was in the right place, but he was overwhelmed with questions and almost dizzy with the contradictions in front of him. In the end, all he could manage was a hesitant,

"Ed . . .?"

Edmund's head whipped around at the sound, finding Peter's shape in the shadowy room, and his eyes widened.

"Peter?" he said disbelievingly. He moved to the side of the stage and came down the stairs, focusing in on Peter with all of the intensity his older brother remembered from their diplomacy sessions. "What on earth are you doing here, Pete? It's almost two in the morning!"

Peter let out a shaky breath. It was Edmund's mannerisms, his face, his voice, and no matter how unbelievable the situation, there was no one else Peter would rather have seen.

"That's . . . a very good question," Peter said carefully, waiting for Edmund to get close enough to see him.

Ed's reaction was almost what he expected. Edmund halted in mid-stride, no more than two feet away from Peter, and Peter watched as the blood drained from his face.

"Lion's mane . . . _how_?" Edmund croaked, his voice nothing but a raspy whisper.

"I don't . . ." Peter began, but he never got to finish that sentence. Suspicion flashed over Edmund's face in the next second, and Peter found himself having to evade his brother's grasp, his body instinctively reacting to Edmund's movement. Years of drills in the training yard had left them able to read each other without thought, and as Edmund managed to grab his forearm, Peter automatically ducked underneath and twisted away, wrenching his arm free from his brother's painful grip.

"Edmund . . ."

Edmund dove for him again, and as they grappled, Peter found an opening and stomped on his instep – a move that they had stolen from each other so often that they now both claimed ownership of it. Edmund grunted in pain and loosened his hold momentarily, enough for Peter to straighten up and try one more time.

"Ed, please . . ."

With one swift rush, Edmund was shoving him against the wall, and Peter offered no resistance, letting his body go limp against the onslaught. Edmund had him pinned in place, hands at Peter's throat, and Peter knew that the only chance he had was to be as unruffled as possible. He gazed into Edmund's eyes, which were full of equal parts anger and confusion.

"Well, it's nice to know you haven't lost your reflexes," he said calmly. "Of course, I wasn't trying very hard."

The combination of mild insult and lack of fear registered somewhere within Edmund. He paused for a long moment. "No, you weren't," he finally acknowledged quietly. He let go of Peter, allowing his brother to find his footing, then tentatively set his hands on Peter's upper arms.

"It _is_ you, but you look . . ." Edmund shook his head in wonder. "I don't understand."

"Neither do I," Peter said, scrubbing his hands over his face in frustration.

"What are you wearing?" Edmund asked, noticing for the first time the out-of-season, unfashionable, and somewhat ill-fitting clothes Peter had on.

"What I was given," Peter said. "No one has had anything new to wear in quite some time in my timeline."

"What?" Edmund said sharply, his wariness back in an instant. "What do you mean by that?"

"Well, let's start with the fact that I look ten years younger than you," Peter said bluntly. "A few hours ago, I was an RAF Flying Officer being smuggled out of France in a rain barrel, in the summertime of 1943, and somehow I end up in the alley behind this club, in the middle of a London that I don't recognize. That should be enough to tell you that something strange is happening."

Edmund's gaze had gone steely. "You weren't in the RAF. You were mustered into the army."

"_Your_ Peter was," Peter corrected him. "The same Peter you were expecting to be at home and asleep tonight."

"Is he?" Edmund asked suddenly, and Peter saw the panic in his eyes. As accustomed as they both were to dangerous situations, somehow the anxiety over each other never lessened.

"I would expect so," Peter nodded reassuringly. "Either that, or he's inhabiting my rain barrel for the minutes or hours that I'm here."

Edmund was shaking his head back and forth. "This is madness. This doesn't make any sense, Pete."

"There's another thing," Peter said with a wan smile. "My Edmund almost never calls me Pete, unless he's deliberately trying to get a rise out of me. Not to mention that he's never played a trumpet in his life," he added softly, glancing to where this Edmund's trumpet sat on the stage.

Edmund stared at him for a minute, looking contemplative. "We need wine," he finally muttered, and Peter laughed quietly. It was a very Narnian, very Edmund response to their current predicament, and that was comforting.

Edmund made his way behind the bar and rummaged underneath it until he came up with a full wine bottle and two glasses. He wordlessly popped the cork and poured the dark red liquid, shoving one glass across the bar to Peter and picking up his own before coming around to sit next to his brother.

"It isn't Narnian wine," Edmund said regretfully, "but it will do." He and Peter saluted each other with their glasses before they each took a long draught.

Edmund spoke the truth. It was not Narnian wine, but the flavor was still amazingly complex on Peter's tongue, and reminded him vividly of Marie and the exquisite wine of her vineyard. He reached out and turned the bottle toward him.

Bordeaux wine.

"I'm still not sure I believe you," Edmund said when he set his glass down. "Except that you move the same, you sound the same, you respond to me in a fight exactly the same way that Peter would. You look identical to the way he did ten years ago. And only you would know to stay completely calm when I'm mistakenly attacking you."

"If our positions were reversed, I'm not sure I would believe you either, Ed," Peter said. "And yet. . ."

He unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt, deliberately, and pulled it away from his wrist to show Edmund the one scar he knew must be universal, the one scar every version of himself would have: the white stripe of scar tissue where his shield had cut into him fighting Miraz. Just as the Edmund sitting in front of him had a thick, round scar toward the middle of his torso, exactly like the Edmund back home. Had those two particular events not happened, neither they nor their counterparts would be alive.

"There's that," Peter said softly. "And there's the feeling I had out there in the alley, the pulling. The magic."

Edmund put his head in his hands, massaging his scalp in his effort to think. "We know that there are other worlds," he murmured. "We know that it's possible to move between them. So why not other times? Why not parallel versions of ourselves?"

"The same conclusion I came to," Peter agreed. "Though it goes no further toward explaining why I'm here."

"No, it really doesn't," Edmund sighed, taking another sip of wine. He looked over at Peter, his eyes regretful. "I'm sorry for jumping on you like that. There's been so much happening, and being confronted with a younger version of _you_ is just one more thing in a long list of unsettling occurrences."

Peter waved off the apology, shaking his head. "I knew you would. I didn't expect anything less, Ed; with no reason to know that I was who I said I was, it was exactly what you should have done."

"If you need more proof," he added, contemplating the wine in his glass, "just before I was spirited here, for lack of a better word, I had an extended encounter with a woman who was as close to a Maenad as anyone I have ever found in this world, and wine that must have been blessed by Bacchus himself, so exquisite was it. I also dreamed of him – of things that he had said to me just before we left Caspian."

Edmund's brows drew together, trying to fit this odd information into the strange scenario they found themselves in. "Bacchus was acting as a messenger?"

Peter nodded. "Perhaps. It seems a bit out of character for him – but he answers to the Lion, as do we all, and he reminded me very forcefully that I have obligations to other worlds besides Narnia."

Edmund nodded slowly. "Worlds, plural?"

And that, Peter thought with satisfaction, removed the last shred of doubt that the man he was sitting next to was Edmund, no matter how different from the one he knew. Only his brother had the legal and political acumen, the absolutely precision and ruthlessness with words, to recognize the profound difference between singular and plural in this case.

"Plural," Peter confirmed, allowing his amusement and affection to creep into his voice.

Edmund caught the fondness in his brother's tone and smiled wryly in acknowledgement. "He was warning you."

"In more ways than one," Peter confirmed.

"So you are here," Edmund said thoughtfully, "and the boundaries that we thought existed between Narnia and England are unraveling."

"What do you mean, 'unraveling'? What are these 'occurrences' that have you so on edge?" Peter asked.

"We think –"

"Wait," Peter interrupted, halting Edmund's explanation. "I'm sorry; I should have asked this first. Just for my own sanity, Ed, what year is it?"

Edmund's mouth twisted a little, in some odd mixture of irony and pain. "It's 1955, Peter."

Peter blinked, trying to process that. No wonder London had looked so different. He was more than ten years from where he had been, in addition to being on some other plane of existence. He had no idea what had happened to himself or his siblings in that amount of time, and no way of knowing whether their life in Narnia matched his. This was going to be extraordinarily tricky. How much should they tell each other? The longer Peter was here, the more things could change irrevocably – and he didn't want to think about what would happen if he encountered his other siblings, or, Aslan forbid, his older, alternate self.

"We need to be careful, Ed," he cautioned. "This is . . . I don't have any doubts that I'm supposed to do something here, but we don't know how much our timelines have in common, and I'm afraid that if we say too much . . ."

"It's possible," Edmund said gravely. "But you cannot help without knowing at least some particulars, and Aslan would not have sent you here lightly."

It was true, Peter reflected. He could not do anything at all without knowing what Edmund was immersed in, and any sort of planning would require details. "All right," he said finally. "You were saying . . .?"

"We think," Edmund began again, weighing his words cautiously, "that someone from Narnia may have found a way into this world. Either that, or someone from this world has found their way into Narnia and back again, possibly bringing others with them. We think that someone knows who we are and may be deliberately targeting us."

"_How?_" Peter asked in horror, his tone almost a mirror of Edmund's a few minutes before. _"Why?"_

"That's what we don't know, and that's exactly why I reacted to you the way that I did," Edmund explained, his shoulders tense. "We don't know what this person is capable of, and I had no idea if it was possible for them to somehow create . . . an _illusion_ of you, or an extraordinary counterfeit of you, rather than the real you. Or one of the real Peters," he amended, his lips twitching in an otherwise preternaturally solemn face. "Especially since . . ."

Edmund didn't finish, and Peter studied his brother's inscrutable expression, rather amazed that across both years and worlds, he could still read the anxiety there, the fear, could still interpret the nuances of Edmund's posture as clearly as ever. He set one hand on Edmund's forearm in a comforting gesture that would be – should be – familiar to both of them, and to his relief, Edmund evinced no surprise.

"You think it's Her," he said quietly. "Somehow. You think She is behind this?"

Neither of them needed the name.

Edmund gave a low, angry growl that reminded Peter alarmingly of Lambert, Susan's Wolf Guard at the Cair, and Peter wondered how this particular Edmund had learned it.

"I don't know," Edmund hissed, his frustration finally leaking out into his speech. "I don't know, and that's what's so _maddening_."

He paused and took a drink before looking at Peter, silently apologizing for what he was about to say. "Susan's been having dreams. Of your torture and death, of my grief, for you and perhaps for others, alarmingly similar to another set of dreams she had years ago. On that particular occasion . . . things did not end well, especially not for you."

Peter thought it wiser not to ask what that meant, although he could hazard several guesses.

Edmund cocked an eyebrow at Peter in question, and Peter gave a quick nod. "She does not have dreams, per se, but Susan is sometimes frighteningly prescient."

Edmund filed away that piece of information and continued his list.

"Then, there was one evening about a fortnight ago when we were all here – I was working, of course, and everyone else had come to hear the band and say hello – and as we drove home, Maureen saw Jadis – or a woman who was Jadis's double in looks and bearing – pass our car on a motorbike. When we arrived home, there was Turkish Delight waiting on our doorstep."

"I assume it wasn't store-bought," Peter said dryly, but he was struggling to suppress his own rapidly rising sense of apprehension. He spared a fleeting moment to wonder who Maureen was, but the voice of the Edmund he knew made itself heard in his mind, and he brushed the thought aside. _Not relevant._ It wasn't, at least not yet.

"It was identical," Edmund said grimly. "Down to the silver filigree box and the green bow."

The almost invisible trembling of Edmund's fingers on the stem of his wineglass indicated how badly that thought unsettled and angered him; his normally iron physical control was slipping.

"I didn't touch the actual food, and neither did you – neither did Pete – when he saw it," Edmund added as an afterthought.

"I should think not," Peter said emphatically, his mind creating and discarding possible explanations at lightening speed. If it had been Jadis on the motorbike, how was that possible? If not, where had the strange double of her come from? Why leave Turkish Delight for Edmund, unless it was some kind of cruel taunt or pointed warning? And the dreams - Susan having visions of her eldest brother dying in some gruesome fashion, of her younger brother grieving, seemed to indicate a level of personal vindictiveness in their foe that certainly smacked of Jadis.

(It helped him, somehow, to think of the Susan, Peter, and Edmund here as distinct from himself and the Susan and Edmund he knew. They were the same on some essential level, yet clearly profoundly different in history and experience.)

Yet . . . it didn't seem possible that Jadis could be working alone. Jadis knew how to move between the worlds, but she could not accomplish it herself. Each time she had been led into a world other than her own, she had needed someone else – whether that person was willing or not. The idea that she might have found a willing accomplice was most worrisome of all to Peter, for that other foe was completely unknown. Jadis had been dead for what might have been thousands of years in Narnia. Someone had to have brought her back, and resurrection was no easy feat, even with the aid of dark magic. Someone had wanted her power and sought her out, and he or she obviously had plans that included Jadis's particular brand of vengeance. Eventually, the pair of them would strike, and strike hard.

"Susan said to me once, shortly after we entered Narnia, that there was no private business for us as monarchs," Peter said reflectively. "I said that we should at least be able to have the illusion of private business. That's all it was for our entire reign – an illusion. There was nothing that happened in the Cair or outside of it that wasn't public knowledge sooner or later, save for a very few private conversations between the four of us, or pairs of us."

Edmund nodded, picking up on his (other?) brother's train of thought. "Now, the privacy we thought we had here in England doesn't exist."

"Exactly. I think you have to assume that whoever is behind this knows everything, and I mean _everything_, about who we are. The attacks you're describing feel personal and vicious, perhaps even vengeful. If Jadis is involved, you know she will stop at nothing to destroy us, and the person who managed to bring her back has to be equally as determined. If you happen to discover something they _don't _know, use it to your advantage."

Edmund exhaled slowly. "What is their purpose? Why?"

"I can't answer that without knowing who they are. For Jadis, it might be enough to simply see us all wiped out of existence – although that feels too easy," Peter said doubtfully.

"It is too easy," Edmund said darkly. "Killing us after taking everything we hold dear would be closer to her approach, but even then there has to be some other purpose. She craves power; she has always craved it."

"So how can coming after us now give her power?" Peter murmured, staring into his wine. Somewhere, his brain registered that he had used "us," putting himself together with this Edmund and his siblings in this place and time– but really, hadn't that decision already been made? He was here, by the will of Aslan, and help he would.

"I do not like to think of Jadis loose in London," Edmund said sinisterly. "It has happened before, as the Professor and Polly knew. She may want to conquer this world, since she failed before."

"She may," Peter allowed, his tone no less foreboding. He was still staring into the wine glass, feeling the dark red liquid draw him in, feeling a memory tug at the back of his mind, faint but of the utmost urgency and importance. Jadis wanted power . . . Jadis wanted them dead . . . Jadis wanted London for her own . . . Jadis had always wanted Narnia for her own . . .

"Edmund, what happened to your Peter?" Peter asked quietly. "When Susan had the visions before, what happened? And what has happened now? Surely you and Susan are not the only targets?"

Edmund studied his brother. Peter was wearing a look he knew well, an expression of intense absorption, his blue eyes distant but piercing. He was reaching for something, some kind of epiphany that was hovering on the edge of his consciousness. When Peter looked this way, the best thing to do was to aid his train of thought and be careful not to disrupt his concentration. These moments came rarely, and they always reminded Edmund forcefully that Peter had been a master at battle strategy, that his skill always came from being able to see the big picture, the movement of many pieces at once. Minutiae mattered, but battles were always about the outcome, and a battle this surely was.

He also knew that it was only because Peter was so focused on the pieces of Edmund's story that he hadn't noticed Edmund's slip about the Professor and Polly. They _had_ known of Jadis's first venture into London, but they were long dead, killed six years before in the train crash that had also taken his parents and Lucy, Eustace and Jill. Lucy had yet to be mentioned in their conversation, and Edmund could only hope that she wouldn't be.

_Merciful Aslan, please don't let him ask. I don't know if I can endure telling him. Not this Peter, not when he looks so much like the Peter who lost all of them._

"Are you familiar with the name Lady Rua?" Edmund asked cautiously, pulling his mind back to the conversation at hand.

Peter's brow furrowed, and after a long moment of thought he shook his head. "Not that I can recall."

"We encountered her toward the end of our first visit to Narnia," Edmund said tersely. "She was a sorceress who had taken an entire island for her own, along with many of our subjects. She took Peter captive and used her magic to try and make him . . . hers. Make him her champion, her executioner."

A muscle in Peter's jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth in anger, but he gave the smallest of nods, telling Edmund to continue.

"She tortured you – Pete – with visions. Some seductive, some tormenting, all sadistic and as terribly real as dark magic could make them. She came perilously close to killing him when he refused to accede to her wishes," Edmund said softly, and he had to stop and swallow.

Peter looked up then, hearing the agony in this other Edmund's voice, and he silently reached over and wrapped his own fingers around Edmund's hand, lying on the bar.

"I found him just in time, just after he had destroyed her and nearly given his life in the process," Edmund whispered. "It was only thanks to Lu's cordial that he made it."

Both men were silent for a moment, Peter absorbing Edmund's story and Edmund working to regain his composure.

"When we returned, the visions stayed with Peter," Edmund continued eventually, almost impassively. "I have lived through one of them, and for that experience alone, I wish I could have had the pleasure of running her through." Peter knew that no one but himself - his selves - would have heard the rage underneath his brother's words. "Pete still suffers from recurrences of the visions, nightmares that result in asthmatic attacks. The toll on his body leaves him exhausted."

"And they have come back?" Peter asked, already knowing the answer.

Edmund nodded in the affirmative. "He saw them again the same night that the Turkish Delight was left for me, and they have happened since. He will not admit it unless I press him, but I can see it."

Despite the awfulness of what he was hearing, Peter smiled. "I would do the same. Ed would be intolerable otherwise. He has an unfortunate tendency to hover when he's worried about me."

Edmund snorted, playfully shoving Peter's shoulder. "May I remind you that you are talking to me, even if I am not the Ed you are used to? Pots and kettles, brother mine. Of the two of us, you are far worse than I about hovering when you're worried."

Peter laughed for the second time that evening, a full and genuine laugh that eased the ache of missing his family as nothing else had. This man might not be his Edmund from 1943, but he was Edmund, through and through. It felt better than Peter had imagined to be talking to him again, instead of being separated by miles, countries, war zones, censors, and age restrictions.

Edmund must have caught some sort of wistfulness in his expression. "How long have you been away from them?" he asked quietly.

"A year and a half," Peter sighed. "Too long. I know they're safe, most of the time, especially Susan, but any letters are few and far between. One almost needn't bother writing, since the censors take out so much, and the RAF is constantly on the move. I write anyway, praying to Aslan that even such choppy communication offers some sort of reassurance."

"It does," Edmund nodded, his gaze introspective. "I remember."

Peter wondered whether he was referring to letters exchanged here, when his Peter was in the army, or letters from some of the campaigns in Narnia, but once again decided it was wiser not to ask. Edmund had ignored his reference to Susan, as well, not asking how she managed to keep in better contact with Peter; clearly they were still trying to determine what was important and what was not.

"Edmund, has there been anything unusual at home?" Peter asked contemplatively, drumming his fingers on the bar. "This woman knows where you live, or she could not have left Turkish Delight at your door. We have to assume that whoever is helping her knows your residence as well. Has anything been different, anything felt off?"

Edmund rolled the wine glass between his palms, refusing to look at him, and Peter noticed with alarm that his hands were shaking again. Something had happened, and whatever it was had frightened Edmund badly.

"Ed, tell me," Peter commanded quietly, knowing that the tone would draw Edmund out of his dark contemplation. Letting Edmund close himself off when he was this upset was never a good idea, and Peter had the feeling that this one last set of events might hold the key to everything.

Edmund sighed. "There were creatures in my house, Peter. Odd, gray, incredibly strong creatures with protuberant eyes, like some sort of mythological pygmy. Creatures that exploded into dust if you succeeded in – I don't suppose 'killing' them is the right word, but it seems the only one to use. I have never seen anything like them in my life, not here or in Narnia, and I have no idea what they are. I did not recognize their language, either – it is very guttural. Maureen heard them speak, but she could only give the barest approximation of what they sounded like. They did not speak to me, not even when I tried to interrogate one of them."

Maureen again. He was going to have to know who she was, though he was already fairly sure of that. Nor did he miss Edmund's use of the word "interrogate"; he had seen Edmund interrogate enemies, particularly enemies that had threatened their lives, and he knew how ferocious Edmund could be. Either these creatures had no fear, or they were trained or forced, somehow, not to give up any information at all. Dread was seeping into Peter's veins like cold fire, and he had a terrible feeling that whatever answer he was going to find, it was going to be just as awful as all of the questions.

"Do you know what they wanted?" he asked, struggling to conceal his turmoil with equanimity. It wouldn't fool Edmund, but it would help them both keep the focus they needed.

Whatever Edmund was about to say was at the heart of his unease and fear, because his hand were clenching and unclenching on the bar, and Peter could see the desire for a sword and a visible foe as clearly as day. Edmund wanted something to attack, and there were very few things that could make his brother _that_ reckless and angry.

"At first, they may have just wanted information," he said hoarsely, his intonation back to the harsh growl that raised the hairs on Peter's forearms in familiarity and foreboding. "They may have just broken into the house to do reconnaissance. When I was fighting the one I tried to question, however, he – he heard the children, and tried to go after them."

Peter's mind whirled, and the picture that began to assemble itself in his thoughts was so ghastly he thought he might be sick. He reached out and grabbed Edmund's arm with a force that made his brother wince.

"Children? I was right, then? Maureen is your wife?" he questioned swiftly. His eyes were drilling into Edmund, imploring him, and although Edmund wasn't sure whether Peter was questioning him out of shock or fury or something else, he nodded.

"And Peter – your Peter – has children as well?" The second question came as quickly as the first.

Another nod. "Mau and I have two. Peter and Meg have three," Edmund responded.

"Susan? Lucy?" Peter pressed.

Edmund shook his head. "No." (_Aslan, forgive me for the omission_, he thought silently, his heart twisting again as he thought of Lucy and the children she had never had.).

Peter couldn't even begin to take in the new information as he looked at Edmund, could hardly think about how much marriage and children meant to him, to_ them_ – but he had to. He had to, because the fate of both Narnia and England could depend on it. The memory that he had been reaching for earlier was suddenly there in the forefront of his mind, almost choking him with terror and meaning and motives. He kept his gaze on Edmund, and forcing the words out of his throat was one of the hardest things he had ever had to do.

"'Can you rule these creatures kindly and fairly, remembering that they are not slaves but Talking Beasts and free subjects? And would you raise your children and grandchildren to do the same?'" he quoted deliberately, hoping Edmund would recognize it for what it was.

Edmund inhaled harshly, the agitation in his face and posture returning full force as he realized where Peter's thoughts were leading. "By the Lion," he said, disbelief warring with realization as he spoke.

"That's what this is about," Peter said vehemently, regaining a bit of his composure as the words spilled out of him. Once he had started, it was as if a dam had burst, bringing with it a flood of clarification. "What Jadis tried to do to you, when we first went to Narnia – she used you differently than she might have, because she was ultimately after Aslan, but I have no doubt that she could have made different decisions, had you shown any inclination to stay loyal to her or any affinity for her methods. You were a child and a son of Adam; what better way to cement her claim to the throne?"

"And what better way to rule Narnia and England than by taking the children of the Four for her own?" Edmund filled in hollowly. "If we are dead, there is no one to stop her, no one for the children to remember. They would forget most of what they knew here if they were in Narnia, in any case," he added bleakly. "She – and whoever is behind her – could place one set of siblings in each world as lieutenants, as _de facto_ rulers, and the two worlds would be linked by blood and magic. _Our_ blood, used for her purposes."

Edmund leaned forward and cradled his head in his hands. "Thank Aslan we haven't left any of the children alone since the break-in."

"We won't let anything happen to them, Edmund," Peter said fiercely. "You are all still here, and so am I, and we will not let it happen."

Edmund opened his mouth to reply, but the sound of breaking glass had them both on their feet in the next instant. Edmund looked toward the kitchen, where the sound had come from, and inclined his head at Peter, who nodded in agreement. Edmund silently reached behind the bar and pulled out a nightclub and a revolver. Peter raised his eyebrows at him in question, but Edmund only shook his head, passing the cocked revolver to Peter without a word. The gun fit easily into Peter's palm; it was not that different from his service revolver that he had left behind just a few hours (_years?_) ago.

The two of them crept behind the bar and through the back of the club, along the same hallway that Peter had used when he entered. As they passed the doorway to the kitchen, the pair of them peered in; several broken glasses littered the floor, but there was no sign of anyone or anything. A breeze drifted toward them, and both of them saw that the access door to the alley was now open.

"They can make mistakes," Edmund said almost soundlessly, and it was with relief that Peter saw fire in his eyes, replacing the near-despair of a few minutes before, fire that said he had every intention of exploiting their enemies' flaws.

Peter moved forward first, easing his body next to the doorframe and peering out into the alley with one eye. It was with a slight shock that he saw the creatures, creatures that must have been the same ones Edmund had talked about – short, squat, and gray, speaking in whispers in a tongue that was entirely alien.

"Ten," he mouthed to Edmund, and Edmund cursed.

"Too many," he muttered. "I don't know what that will do, if it does anything," nodding toward the revolver Peter held, "and I don't think we could each take five of them."

Peter was thinking rapidly as Edmund spoke, not really listening to his younger brother. They needed a diversion; he had to get Edmund out of here in one piece. He turned around and made his way back to the main room, ignoring Edmund's hissed protest, until he returned with a bottle of vodka in his hands.

"Listen," he said in an undertone. "I'm going to create a distraction, and then go out there and engage them. You need to get away from here, Edmund. Go find Peter and Susan, tell them what we know. Make sure the children are safe."

"Are you mad?" Edmund protested. "I refuse to leave you behind in a ten-to-one fight, Peter! I won't do it!"

Peter fixed him with a glare that he remembered all too well. "You are no good to them dead, Edmund," he said bluntly. "I am not of this world, any more than those creatures are, and I have faith that nothing too terrible can happen to me out there. They _can _hurt you, and they will. _Go_."

Edmund shook his head, his lips set in a stubborn line. "No, my king. Together, or not at all."

Peter glared at him a moment longer, trying to wear him down, but Edmund refused to be moved, and he finally relented.

"All right," he sighed in exasperation. "Together, then. Be ready."

Peter felt Edmund's grin without really seeing it as he turned back to the doorway, positioning himself so that he had a clear sightline. After taking a firm grip on the neck of the vodka bottle, hoping to land it as near the creatures as he could, Peter tossed. As the bottle landed with a smash on the pavement, directly next to two of the repulsive things, Peter raised the revolver and fired.

His RAF training held, and his aim was true. The alcohol lit up with a _woosh_, and the creatures screamed. The pair nearest the flames disappeared almost instantly, creating clouds of fine dust, but the other eight cowered away from the light and heat.

Peter had never heard such an abhorrent sound in all his life – like a thousand nails on a blackboard all at once – but he plunged into the alley and caught one of the horrid things by the neck, smashing it into the wall. He felt Edmund move behind him, and suddenly there was nothing but blows and screams, grunts and fists and shoves. Without being entirely aware of what it meant, at some point Peter heard a shout and running footsteps, and there were more bodies than just the pair of them, but he couldn't really pay attention to it at all. The creatures were relentless, and in the midst of the fight, Peter felt the tugging begin again, with an insistence that almost made him ill. He struggled against it with all of his considerable willpower; he could not go yet, not when Edmund was still in danger. He kept fighting ferociously, using elbows, feet, knees, hands, and even teeth where necessary. As the conflict went on, Peter felt lighter and lighter, though he continued to single-mindedly destroy the things that were threatening his family.

When the constant motion finally slowed, Peter turned away from the dusty remains of his last foe, coughing – and found himself confronted with a pair of shocked blue eyes that were the mirror of his own.

For just a moment, he took in the sight of his older self – astonished, disheveled, and breathless, as Peter was sure he himself was – and glimpsed Susan over Edmund's shoulder, older, paler, her hands pressed against her mouth in astonishment. As the pulling became almost too much to stand, he gave the other Peter a small smile.

"Take care of them," he said with a nod, and then his eyes moved to Edmund, who seemed frozen by the bizarre tableau in front of him.

"Aslan be with you, brother," Peter said warmly, and as Edmund nodded, he felt the darkness engulf him.

* * *

><p>As his twin – twin? double? other self? – vanished in a rush of wind, Peter turned an incredulous face to his brother.<p>

"Edmund," he demanded, his voice shaking, "what in the name of Aslan is going _on_? First there is someone - or some_thing_ – in my home, then Susan calls me up half-frantic about you, and we get here only to find you and -"

He couldn't quite say it.

"Edmund, who was that?" Susan whispered. "He – he looked –" She glanced involuntarily at her eldest brother, and Edmund nodded.

"Yes, he did. That's because he _was_," Edmund said firmly, his tone not allowing for any argument. "It's been an interesting night. Someone came to the house?" he inquired swiftly, throwing a concerned glance at his brother.

"Yes. I just don't know who it was," Peter answered, frowning. "Meg heard noises, and when she went into the kitchen, the back door was open. I thought I saw someone in the yard, but when I went outside there was nothing to be found. After I had locked everything up again, Lucy started calling for us, and she swore that she had seen someone at her window, even though her room is upstairs. She was amazingly calm about it, really," Peter said with a proud but sad smile. "She was frightened, but utterly sure of herself. She is so like our Lu."

"Of course she is," Susan said gently. "Our Lucy would be very proud of her niece."

"Meg is with the children?" Edmund asked Peter apprehensively, his worry only increasing with Peter's story.

"She is," Peter confirmed, though Edmund could see the disquiet in his face. "I told her to call Maureen if anything else strange happened. I hated to leave them, but when Susan called I feared the worst."

"Is that how you both came to be here?" Edmund questioned, still trying to understand the order of events that had led to his siblings' appearance.

Peter looked to his sister to answer the query, and Susan raised troubled eyes to Edmund. "I woke up and I just – knew," she said. "I knew we were supposed to be with you, though I had no idea why. I called Peter and he promised to meet me here. When we arrived, we heard the shouting, and you know the rest. I never would have thought of that particular use for heels," she said irreverently, a spark of humor showing through her unease. Edmund noticed for the first time that she was standing on uneven footing, and she held up a high heel that was mangled almost beyond recognition.

Her look of mischievous triumph startled a chuckle out of Edmund, and without conscious thought he was suddenly holding Susan tightly, the glimpse of the sister he remembered almost too much to bear.

"There's the Su I've missed," he said, placing a swift kiss on her hair. Her eyes were wide with surprise as she looked back at him, but Edmund saw the longing that she had kept buried for so many years, saw the sadness that had almost destroyed her, though her isolation had been of her own choosing. He hesitantly kept an arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into the embrace just as hesitantly, the gesture feeling awkward after so much painful hostility. Edmund reached his other arm out to Peter, and Peter gladly took his place on Edmund's other side, waiting for Edmund to resume his explanation.

"The intruders' purpose was to distract you," Edmund said soberly. "They were trying to frighten you and keep you occupied, and they almost succeeded. If it hadn't been for Susan's phone call, you might not have gotten here in time. "

"But you had help," Susan said wonderingly. "You had – _him_. Somehow."

"By Aslan's grace," Edmund agreed solemnly. "You could not be in two places at once," he said to Peter, "and so Aslan brought another you to me, when I needed you most."

"He was a younger me, I think – I had such a brief glimpse of him," Peter said, looking at his brother in wonder and puzzlement.

"Yes," Edmund said quietly. "Thank goodness he appeared when he did; not only did he help me get a better grasp of what has been happening, but I wouldn't be talking to you now if he hadn't been here to help me contend with that ambush." He paused for a moment and then added, "He also had assistance from Bacchus and a French Maenad, both of whom reminded him that being High King of Narnia is an obligation in all worlds, not just his own."

"A Maenad," Peter muttered, his cheeks flaming, and Edmund grinned wickedly at his brother's discomfort. "It would really be better if Meg _never_ hears about that."

"And Bacchus," Susan said thoughtfully. "A bit unusual for him to be acting as a messenger, isn't it?"

"My thought precisely," Edmund said, giving Susan the first genuine smile he had directed at her in years. He let go of his brother to take Susan by the shoulders, earnestness showing in every line of his face as he addressed her.

"We have been apart for long enough, my sister," Edmund said tenderly. "We cannot win this unless we are together, and I cannot lose another sibling. Are you with us, Susan of Narnia?"

Susan smiled tremulously at him. "I am," she said decisively, and the weight that seemed to lift off of his shoulders left Edmund feeling lightheaded.

"I'll explain everything," Edmund promised. "It's not good," he added grimly, "but at least now we have an idea of what we're up against. We'll have a little time to regroup; our enemies will not have been expecting two of you," he said, looking at Peter.

Peter opened his arms to both of them, and the three of them stood entwined together, supporting each other in silent unity, with tears occasionally glittering on their cheeks. It had been too long.

"Come," Edmund said eventually, letting go and opening the door to the Romper Room. "We have been given a respite, and we must use it well."

* * *

><p>When Peter woke again, he was surrounded by the smell of wood and the heady scent of wine, and he whispered a thank you to Bacchus for both his warnings and his timely reminders. The wine god was capricious, but never to be taken lightly.<p>

His next thoughts were of the siblings he had left behind, both in the present and the future, and he sent a silent prayer to Aslan as the cart rumbled on toward Canfranc.

_Aslan, bless and keep them all, in the past and present, in this world and their world, in Narnia and out of it. We serve you and serve Narnia always._


End file.
